


Sugar Tongue

by stiction



Series: The Language in Dimmer Rooms [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cunnilingus, F/F, Horrorterrors - Freeform, Tentabulges, Vague elements of mind control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 04:36:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2679359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stiction/pseuds/stiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know, for all that you claim not to be an interior decorator, you have a lot of intense feelings about afghans and their hypothetical place on our couch.”</p>
<p>“Rose,” she sighs. “My dearest. The seed-bearing fruit of my ever adoring eye. Afghans have no place on our couch, hypothetical or not.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar Tongue

**== > Rose: Have mildly alarming fantasies.**

Sometimes the things you feel compelled to do worry you. You don't really know how to explain them. This one is especially troublesome, though it's still simply in your mind, and for the most part it's easy to discredit its legitimacy - but when even your extensive knowledge of the human psyche fails to do  _that_ , you write it off as one of  _those things_.

You have quite a few of _those things_ , as it turns out. They just happen to be inconvenient on those rare occasions when they involve other people, even more so when those people are near and dear to you. You may have quite a few of  _those things_ , but you have _very_  few people that are near and dear to your heart; for all your posturing, loss is just as acute for you as it is for anyone else. 

...It's beginning to sound like Kanaya is narrating your thoughts. You'd best make this concise, or else you'll never come to terms with it.

Your fixation (one of many you'd rather not admit, even to yourself) started with a simple, sleepy, instinctive action. It hadn't been much. You'd just padded to the bathroom, tired but intent on washing up before bed, and seen the slick green mess covering your hand, and.

And it just kind of happened, yes, your finger lifting to your mouth, lips parting as your tongue stretched to lick your skin clean. 

At first you shuddered, the taste foreign and intense. Curiosity, however, has never been in short supply for you, and a second test proved sweeter, fuller, until suddenly your hand was clean and you were panting, staring at yourself in the bathroom mirror as you realized that you had just consumed an indeterminable, possibly toxic amount of your alien girlfriend's genetic material. 

And enjoyed it.

Immensely.

It occurred to you that that would likely make an ordinary person uncomfortable, possibly panicked (who, after all, knew the edibility of troll semen for humans?), and almost certainly disgusted - but you are not an ordinary person, and you did not fight through the end of the world just to lose your head over a matter so comparably insignificant. You just turned the faucet on, washed the last traces of stickiness from your skin, and returned to bed, to a half-asleep Kanaya. You curled up against her back, but your exhaustion was gone, replaced by the heavy, excited pounding of your heart. 

And that was only the beginning. 

...At least, you  _assume_  that was the true origin of the compulsion - there could, of course, be any number of contributing factors: deeply buried trauma, heredity malformations in the brain... not to mention the lingering influence of the Horrorterrors. Obviously, it would be optimal to rule the last out, but lately it seems like the full reboot SBURB gave the sixteen of you didn't quite catch the last clouds of grimdark still poisoning your mind. Some days you catch yourself staring wistfully at raw meat in the supermarket, wondering at the exact texture it would have under your teeth, the taste of the old blood running in pink streaks down your chin. 

The thoughts are quiet, though, easy enough to ignore, and your body doesn't fight you picking up a package, taking it home, and cooking it  _very thoroughly_  for dinner. It doesn't rebel the way it does when you consider denying yourself  _this_  urge, when your mouth opens automatically for another stolen taste from your fingers while Kanaya, oblivious, breathes her way back to composure against your chest. You watch as her bulge slips back into its sheathe, resisting the urge to reach down and coax it out again, to press your lips to the length of it and let it wrap around your fingertips.

You're contemplating just pushing her over right here and now, completely disregarding the half-full bucket between her legs as it topples over and soaks the mattress; your knees would be sticky with her genetic material, elbows green and slick and her hands clenching hard in your hair as you suck the slippery tip of her bulge into your mouth. Unconsciously, your fingers tighten on Kanaya's shoulders, and she stirs, kissing up your throat as one shaking hand finds its proper place between your legs. 

Maybe next time.

The thing about next times, however, is that you are rarely patient enough to let them come. Maybe you once were - of course, when it came to passive-aggressively one-upping your mother, you possessed boundless patience - but these days you simply cannot be bothered to wait. You have no plans to die again any time soon, but there are no guarantees that this strange new world will hold firm, and as much as it pains you to say it, you are scared shitless by the prospect.

Destroying the universe and watching everyone you love die at least once really puts things into perspective.

That's why, in the end, you decide not to wait at all.

In any case, the cravings have only intensified, pure visceral urges that pull right from the pit of your stomach and trigger that familiar pulse between your legs - one you are beginning to lose control of. They're distracting and thoroughly inconvenient and everyone is laughing so you smile and nod, enigmatic despite the desperate way you press your thighs together under the table. Nobody notices how you're shaking.

Nobody except Kanaya, apparently, who watches the slight trembling of the wine glass in your hand with mild curiosity. She leans over as John gestures wildly across the table from you. Her hair tickles your temple, warm shoulder pressing against yours. It feels electric and you swallow your gasp with a sip of heavy, heady wine. 

"-and it was  _huuuuuuuuge!_  I mean, we're talking the size of one of these plates!" 

Karkat grabs John's wrist just as he's about to pick up his plate and dump food all over the table in an attempt to illustrate for everyone just how huge the spider he's talking about was. 

"Are you alright?" Kanaya murmurs in the lull, and as if the whispering wasn't enough, she slips her arm around your waist, touching your free hand softly. Her palm is hot on your leg through the velvet dress.

You nod, short and sharp, and force a smile as John recounts the epic tale of the alien spider he and Karkat found in the bathtub a few nights ago. You aren't looking, but you can feel Kanaya's slight recoil at your dismissiveness. She makes to take her hand away and you stop her, giving her fingers a light squeeze and leaving your own draped on top of them.

"Just starting to feel the wine," you tell her quietly, punctuating it with a dainty sip. It isn't a lie, not really; your veins are warm, skin tingling with it and with her, and you can't exactly tell her how the slight red tinge left on her teeth from her extremely rare steak is giving you the vapors. It's becoming hard to concentrate on the conversation, even with how loud John is talking and how vehemently Karkat is denying that he ever shrieked like a girl and how Kanaya is trying desperately not to laugh beside you. You can't help it, though - a stray giggle (or ten) forces its way out your mouth, paving the way for stomach-clenching laughter, and that's all it takes for John to beam, triumphant.

"Come on, Rose," he says. "You've got to have some good stories by now."

"Ugh." Karkat rolls his eyes. "There is no way she's going to have anything good, dumbass. Neither of them is as stupid as you." He pauses a moment and then laughs, lifting his hands in a careless shrug. "Or me, for that matter." 

You're still reeling as you catch your breath (you haven't laughed like that in  _ages_ , it's a miracle how much good seeing John does for you) and leaning heavily on Kanaya, and any other time you would wave it off and pass the conch to someone else. 

But it feels  _good_  to feel good - as well as to spite Karkat - so you sit up, leaning over the table and relishing the way John immediately leans in to listen.

"Well," you tell him. "There was this one time our downstairs neighbor tried to set Kanaya up with her son..."

\--

"That was a pleasant evening," Kanaya remarks after dinner, the two of you standing together under the street lamp at the bus stop. It's cold and you press into her while you wait for the bus; her arm is heavy and warm around your shoulder, breath visible and mixing with yours. "It was a shame that Jade and Dave could not join us, however." 

Your head is still spinning, a little faster now, and you nod dumbly, hand curling in one of the front pockets of her coat. It's true, though. It was a shame. Having never truly met before the whole ordeal, you find yourself missing the others far more than is logical. John, at least, is close, barely twenty minutes out in the suburbs.

Jade tried city life for a few months after the reboot. Nightmarish would be an understatement. From the multiple store bans imposed on her within the first two weeks to the constant noise complaints from her neighbors, it was an unmitigated disaster. Her lips were sealed ( _uh... its none of your beeswax rose!!! Dx_ ), but you had further suspicions (mostly concerning the often flooded bathroom and the sudden increase in the amounts of both seafood in her fridge and bottles of shampoo in her shower) about who else influenced her decision to move out to the coast.

Your dear ectobrother, however, hasn't slowed down long enough to make a new home. You get the occasional postcard to fill you in on how he's been armwrestling Swedes (and how he sprained his wrist, too proud to decline a young troll who stepped up to the plate) and swindling any sentient, wealthy being he could find out of their life savings. ( _old habits die hard sis you know just as well as i do_ ) He also frequently mentions dropping the sickest beats this side of the Milky Way, but that's nothing new. What is new is his obsession with never staying still, with always being on the run - something you are fairly certain you can attribute to his time in the Medium. For someone who spent an indeterminable amount of time in such a malleable environment, a world with rules and rational progression of time must be dizzying. There is, of course, the possibility that Dave is doing what Dave was always meant to do, game or no game; as slim as it is, you can't deny your tendency to put everything to reason, the infallible, infinite lexicon of psychological malfunctions that resides in some indomitable part of your brain.

The fact is, you miss them, an ache like an old, bone-deep bruise you forget to notice until you knock against it and send a shock up through your ribs. You want to say something, to tell someone, but you don't know how because air is not a thing that is occupying your body - only pain now. Your knees feel suddenly weak, whether from the wine or the cold or the grief, and you cling fast to Kanaya's coat. The winter air needles you throat as you breathe in, smelling city metal and Kanaya, road salt and the spices on her breath. 

"I'm beginning to worry," she says, and your train of thought does an acrobatic fucking pirouette off the handle - no,  _tracks_. You meant  _tracks_. "Are you sure you are well?"

You nod compulsively, adding a quiet, "I'm fine." You nod like it makes it true. She doesn't look convinced.

"You seem significantly less steady than usual." Kanaya raises a hand to your cheek, thumb tracing the side of your nose, and you struggle not to press your face into her palm. You hate yourself a little for your lack of composure. Her brow furrows as you step back, shrinking from the touch - and then it smooths itself out, her face blank. Her hand drops to her side and, a pang of need in the midst of your haze, you immediately want her to touch you again.

With wailing breaks and the long, wet squelch of slush under tires, the bus pulls up at the stop. Kanaya stares at you for a long moment before turning and stomping delicately up the steps; she is the only person (save yourself) you know that can stomp delicately. Paying the fare at the top, she grabs your wrist and presses into the thick crowd of passengers.

She's hurt. You can feel it in your suddenly twisting gut, see it in the way she pushes, polite but unyielding, to a small pocket of space in the back and drops your hand as soon as she can. From the moment she finds her spot to the instand the bus skids to a halt at the next stop she is pointedly NOT LOOKING AT YOU. She is staring instead at a fixed point across the bus - possibly the obnoxious yellow banner declaring a BOGO sale at Troll Payless Shoe Store. 

(Troll Payless Shoe Store, incidentally, is not its real name. Its real name is far too long to fit on a sign. Even the acronym is nigh illegible. You simply think of it as Troll Payless Shoe Store because Kanaya makes this face every time she passes it that is similar to the one she makes when she discovers an old piece of chewing gum has attached itself to the sole of her  _much more fashion-conscious shoes_.) 

The doors open and, along with a breath of much-needed fresh air, several more passengers push on. You're shoved up against Kanaya's chest, hands fisting once more in her jacket as your knees almost buckle. She ignores it, huffing a short surprised breath before falling silent, but in the next moment you feel sudden pressure on the small of your back, her arm wrapping loosely around you and cutting you off from the crowd. 

You're incredibly close once again, head spinning with it. You are well and truly soused, whether on wine or arousal it is hard to tell. It is likely an indistinguishable mix, judging by the fact that your pulse has only increased in the last few moments and the light throbbing in your head shows no signs of abating.

Shameless now, you take her gesture and run with it, leaning forward to bury your face in her neck; you breathe her in to drown out the pulse and swell of strangers, and she barely hesitates before tightening her grip, fingers spreading into the curve of your waist. You know you aren't completely absolved, not yet at least, but you'll take what you can get and give back even more later.

Another sudden braking, more people, and every last inch of your body is pressed up against Kanaya's. Her back is against a metal pole, keeping the two of you steady as the bus makes sharp turns and hard stops. You are hyper aware of every breath she takes, her heartbeat separate from the muddle of the crowd. The slow burn under your skin grows exponentially as the ride wears on, until you're sure you won't be able to wait for the apartment, until you can't keep off her any longer.

The bus is noisy and swaying and you relax into her, surreptitiously slipping your hands into her coat. She stiffens, shivers, melts as your palm comes to rest over the pale grey ring of scar tissue in the small of her back. Knowing its spot even through coat and dress and slip, she touches your own jagged scar. The sensation is always electric, impossibly intimate, and you tip your head to taste her throat, stretching up onto the tips of your toes to kiss at her neck. When you drag your nails across the scar Kanaya jerks against you, half-gasp shuddering out against your hair. You press harder, hunger coiling in your gut. 

"Rose," she whispers, gripping the back of your jacket. Her voice is trembling, so slight as to be inaudible, but you know her voice and you know  _her_  and she is most definitely losing her cool - possibly as much as you are. "I believe we have arrived at our destination, and, if you do not wish to double back and finish the journey on foot, it would be rational for us to disembark  _right now_."

She keeps her arm around you this time, pulling away from the metal bar and shouldering her way to the door. Held steady against her, you step out into the cold. Winter air hits you hard and sears your flushed cheeks; you cling fast to her, suddenly dazed.

"This way," Kanaya says, even though you've ridden this stop hundreds of times and could walk there blind. Led a block down to the familiar green door of your apartment building, you climb the steps by some miracle, the pit of your stomach tight and hard with anticipation. You manage to rein in the pounding in your temples that has almost nothing to do with the wine and pretty much everything to do with the cut of Kanaya's dress, with her hand hot through layers of fabric.

Kanaya digs in her pocket for the keys, and suddenly you do not give the minimum two and three-quarters fucks that have been keeping you from going full cliche and ripping the bodice of her dress open the way they do in the trashy troll fantasy novels she hides in her sewing basket. The door is open and you step forward, prepared to slip past her in all her chivalrous, door-holding glory - and then you notice just how conveniently tuggable the lapels of her coat are. Your hand is probably shaking in the space between your side and her chest, but once it's there it doesn't matter because it's clenching tight in said lapels and pulling her forward to meet you in the subtle heat of the hallway.

She makes this surprised  _mmph_  sound when you kiss her, the one you love, and it's only a moment before her grip is firm on your waist, pressing you tight to her as she kicks the door shut. 

You run your hands down her chest, pulling impatiently at the cinched sash around her waist. It falls open and you press on, relentless and hungry; with your tongue you trace the sharp tips of her teeth. She shrugs her coat off and gets her hands right back on you, a sigh in your mouth and her fingers flying on the buttons of your jacket.

As a seamstress, Kanaya is remarkably good at undressing you. Her hips pin you to the wall and her fingers slide into your jacket, gripping at your shoulderblades as her tongue slides against yours, hot and slippery and just the least bit long and thin and  _alien_  to yours in the most familiar way.

She brushes the catch of your dress and you stifle a sudden, unexpected whimper; it's answered ( _oh good lord_ ) by a deep, rumbling purr (you're pretty sure that shouldn't make you this wet) in Kanaya's throat as she slides a hand down and around to the insides of your thighs. Her fingers press up between your legs as she bites at your lip, heel of her palm grinding slowly against that _exact right spot_ , the one that makes your knees weak and would put you in immediate danger of swooning were it not for her arm around you. Two fingertips stroke along the soaked silk of your panties through your tights, tracing the seams and sending heavy shivers down your spine. 

That unnameable urge rises again in you until you can barely stand it, the pulse in your mind growing thick and loud as Kanaya's fingers rub harder against you.

It's time, a small part of you whispers. The rest of you is definitely amenable to the decision. 

You lean forward into her, pressing at her shoulders; even though you hear the amused click in her throat, even though you  _know_  you could shove all day and not have her move one six thousandth of an inch, she lets you push her to the opposite wall of the narrow hallway, this smile on her face that says  _Now What On Earth Has My Dear Ridiculous Human Gotten It Into Her Head To Do This Time_. Her eyes are low and curious and you step forward onto tiptoes to kiss her, rocking forward and feeling her bone bulge against the dip of your hips. An appreciative churr hums through your mouth and you roll forward again, sliding a hand in between the two of you to stroke her through her dress. 

You take a moment to fondly consider how fortunate it was that both of you wore dark clothing tonight - not to say that Kanaya isn't the master of getting green stains out of fabrics of every sort. Because she is.

Finally you feel the tip of her bulge proper unsheathe, undulating slowly against your hand with only a layer of velvet and a thin slip separating your skin from hers.

"Kanaya," you murmur, relishing the quiet, needy click she responds with. Your calves are beginning to ache from trying to be taller for so long, and you simply cannot wait any longer. "I want to try something different tonight." 

Her fingers slowing to a stop between your legs, she goes still, lets out a quiet breath. "What exactly would different imply in this situation?" 

"Quite a broad range of things." You have half a mind to say it out loud and give this terrible, obsessive urge of yours legitimacy - but the other half of you wants to see her taken by surprise, as she so rarely is. "If I can guarantee mutual enjoyment, are you amenable to experimentation?" 

Momentary doubt flashes in her eyes, amidst the overwhelming appearance of desire. She opens her mouth to speak, and you cut her off.

"No, it is not reckless, and I will harm neither you nor myself in the process."

Your impudence earns you a smile, as it all too frequently does.

"I suppose I am agreeable to... whatever it is that you want," Kanaya says finally. As if she wouldn't, with her cheeks flushed green and her eyes constantly drawn to the slipping bust of your dress.

Good, then. You give her another firm stroke, watching the way her back arches away from the wall, then reach for the hem of her dress.

Consent is  _so_  sexy.

You slide your hands up under the skirt of it, all smooth thighs and soft skin and you can feel the minute, excited jumping of the muscles beneath her skin as you rub your thumbs along the tops of her stockings. You store the sound she makes in the back of your mind, scientifically fascinating, full of potential on paper, and gut-wrenchingly  _appealing_. Pushing the velvet up over her hips, your hand finds her bulge unwinding, meeting your hand with a fluid ease. 

It laces around your fingers as you kiss her neck, your skin growing slicker the longer you touch her. Suddenly she strokes you again, hard, and your knees wobble at the sudden surge of warmth. A bead of green slides down your wrist, crossing your veins and tickling the sensitive skin there, and you simply _can_ not wait.

With your free hand you grasp for her forearm, pinning her elbow to the wall; a startled, undignified grunt slips from her lips and you jump at the chance to steal it. Your teeth clack against hers, a momentary shock of pain that does nothing to deter you, but as she moves to kiss back, her tongue flitting out against your lips, you pull back. You are breathing hard, your heart pounding like nothing else, blood rushing hot through your veins as you drop to your knees. 

Kanaya stares down at you, your hand fumbling to grasp one of hers as you give her bulge a gentle squeeze. The thought suddenly comes to you that, in the entire history of troll reproduction, putting lips and tongue to bulge has probably never been a thing that happens - except possibly in the most violent of kismesissitudes, and even then it's unlikely - which is good. 

You want to be the only one to take Kanaya Maryam's composure apart at the metaphorical seams. 

But your mind lights on the idea that at some point in time there was the possibility that you  _wouldn't_  be - that you right now could have been replaced by some snarly-haired, fang toothed troll - and it's hardly coincidence that Vriska comes to mind. The thought kicks straight into the dark center of you like a foot into a silt-bottomed stream, ink-black jealousy spreading through your veins.

Without thinking any longer, you wriggle your fingers, moving gently with the length of Kanaya's bulge as you lean in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of one grey, shaking thigh. 

You don't go straight for the bulge, no, the deep dark parts of your heart croon now about how you want to make it  _last_ , don't you, you want to make sure the experience is all it can be and nothing less; your lips trail upwards, past the tops of her stockings to the hinge of her leg. You kiss the base of her sheath, her skin there hot and dry, letting your tongue slip out to wet the space between her bulge and her nook - but you are not a troll, you can't even touch your  _nose_  with your tongue, and sometimes the positioning just isn't right, something that is unerringly frustrating for you.

"Spread your legs," you tell her, the words thick in your mouth, sounding strange even to yourself. You figure it's just the alcohol and the throbbing in your head and between your legs, but Kanaya just stares down at you, gone still and gaping a little. 

"Um?"

And it’s then that you realize what came out of your mouth was not standard American English, tinged ever so slightly with that inescapable border accent, but the garbled, guttural syllables of what is most commonly known as the Eldritch tongues.

Which is bad, because you should seriously be done with that by now.

You think you ought to be worried, but then you aren’t, because you are staring at the quick rise and fall of Kanaya’s chest, short hitching breaths while you’re down here, her bulge in your hand and your mouth half an inch from her skin. 

Words never get you far anyways; with the two of you and your combined vocabulary, there are infinite ways to talk forever and say absolutely nothing. Instead, you let go of her hand, placing that palm on the inside of her knee and pushing gently until she moves her leg. 

Then you lean in, your heart so absolutely jammed up your throat that it’s in danger of suffocating you, and slip your tongue slowly between her legs. She jolts, knees locking, and her thighs would close around you if you didn’t still have one hand on the inside of one knee, thumb stroking her skin until she relaxes. Your blood is rushing fast, your already spinning head dizzy with the sound of your heartbeat, and Kanaya is churring so loud and so low that you can almost feel it on your lips. 

Your tongue traces the edge of her nook before dipping inside her, a shallow stroke that sends you reeling, your own moan humming through your throat before hers echoes. The taste is strong and sweet and heady, wine-like in its potency and in the way it only whets your appetite. You sit back on your heels, licking your lips without a second thought, and when you open your eyes Kanaya is staring at you with a ferocity matched only by starving lionesses roaming the barren deserts of some godforsaken continent. 

You are probably quite the sight right now, lips and tongue tinged green as if you were sucking on candy, hair mussed and cheeks flushed and most likely staring at Kanaya the exact same way she is staring at you. Hungrily.

Your stomach twists a little in anticipation as you bring your lips to Kanaya’s bulge. 

You shut you eyes and close your lips around the tip of Kanaya’s bulge. 

It’s hot and soft and sweet on your tongue and you have never been more conscious of your teeth than you are at this moment, not even that time Mom took you to the dentist because she was convinced you had an extra set of molars coming in – after all, you kept baring your teeth in the strangest fashion! (That was before you had learned that smiling was not Lalonde behavior, at least not without a few good, dry martinis in you. And look now, see how well you've upheld the family tradition.)

You go still, feeling for a moment a low, numb panic. What if you hurt her. What if she hurts  _you_. What if. 

You can feel the muscles stretching under the thin skin of her bulge, moving against your tongue in slow grinds, and you shiver hard. It is seriously fucked up what this is doing to you, but the dark parts of you are nigh exploding in ecstasy and the dark parts were always the loudest parts, yes they were, and they are  _very_  pleased with this. 

Slowly, you slide your fingers from her bulge, and as it unwinds you take more of it into your mouth. You open your lips wider around her as the final loop straightens. The thickest part of her bulge is making your jaw twinge, the slim tip tickling the roof of your mouth as it rubs firmly against your palate. 

It's a struggle, mouth full as it is, but you try to move your tongue, the heat of her alone making you squirm and press your legs together more firmly. Kanaya jolts again, crooning low noises that might sound vaguely like your name if studied by someone trained to decode the last transmissions of dying stars, or something so equally devastating and beautiful that it makes your heart twist in your chest and - and- and -

It suddenly touches against the back of your throat, and that twist in your heart becomes a dead stop as your shoulders lock up and you fight the instinct to gag. Your hand clenches tight on her knee and you hear distorted apologies, and it takes a moment but finally you manage to breathe through your nose and not panic. 

You let go of her knee, resting your palms on her thighs and pretending your hands aren't shaking like trees in a hurricane - and you swallow around her, the tension in your shoulders melting in a bone-deep shudder as Kanaya's bulge slips further down your throat. Something touches your head and you open her eyes to see her staring down at you, her lips slack and bitten. Her fingers comb through your hair, trailing to cup your cheek and press, just so, just so that her bulge presses back against her fingertips. 

"Rose," she says, her r rolling hard in her mouth, and you close your eyes again, resettling your hands on her thighs and working your tongue against her bulge. She clicks loud and the hand on your cheek slides back, fisting in your hair. You wince and moan and her bulge jerks in your throat at the sound, retracting slightly before pushing forward again, reaching a little deeper this time. 

She feels close already, bulge twitching in your throat. Her nails rake your scalp and you want to cry, it feels  _that good_ , she should stop apologizing and do it again, there isn’t a thing on this world you could possibly want more at this moment. 

Kanaya is shaking like the trees outside in the winter wind, all skinny pale brittle branchiness but with none of the cold, and you know that she’s probably reaching that point you always refer to in your mind as The Pailing Zone (capitals required, and with a dramatic  _You are now entering_... preceding it). You should

make her beg for it

get on with the pailing reflex part of it before it gets really

do you even know how delicious that would be

painful for her, before those voices lingering in the darkened streets of your mind come through in too full a force to be deterred. You move one hand up her thigh, realize that you’re trembling a fair bit yourself, stop that immediately (your fingers still bounce a little but that is beyond even  _your_  control), and press your fingertips into the hinge of her hip. She clicks again and lets go of a breath she must have been holding for quite a while, judging by the sound of it. You press again, lower, on a spot between her nook and her thigh, and her bulge practically thrashes in your mouth, pushing too deep.

no that’s just about perfect

“Rose,” Kanaya keens, her hand in your hair clenching and releasing, slipping down to stroke your cheek again. She works the words silently in her mouth for a moment before they all come out in a rush. “Rose I think that _now_ is that crucial moment in which you should be fetching the bucket because I believe I am approaching the criti-” Her teeth snap down on her lip as you rub your knuckles over the opening of her nook, dipping in lightly just to watch her writhe.

And she does, beautifully, a sight well worth straining your neck to watch at this awkward angle. You ought to be careful, though, or else her horns will gouge a hole in the wall. Again. They’ve grown taller since the two of you met, sharper as well, and infinitely more cumbersome in cramped quarters. You're rather fond of them. You are rather exasperated, however, when you have to repair and repaint the nicks, scrapes, and outright holes they put in the wall.

You push all thoughts of home improvement out of your head and uncurl your hand. Trailing your nails lightly over her green-streaked skin, you settle one fingertip at the entrance to her nook. It takes a moment for her to compose herself once more, as composed as she gets in moments like these, but once her shoulders stop jumping with her breaths and her eyes have fixed on yours again, confusion and need spoken the way her tongue can't quite manage right now, you slide your finger easily up into her. 

Her knees wobble, and you grab her leg again, holding fast while you rub the heel of your hand against the space between her nook and her bulge. She's tight around your knuckle, but not  _too_  much so, and you add another finger on the next gentle thrust. Kanaya's purr is halting, broken by clicks and low pants. Her other hand settles on your head as well, gripping a handful of your hair and pressing your face closer to her hips almost unconsciously; you swallow around her again and her grip tightens hard, yanking at your hair in the most delicious way. 

You press deeper inside her, movement rough and graceless as you reach deliberately towards the back of her nook. Part of you wants her to beg, and there is little to be disappointed with. She keens in frustration, thrusting shallowly with her hips to try and get your fingers where she needs them. 

Her hands stroke your face as she starts to ramble incoherently again and you hum quietly, turning your fingers to press hard into the front wall of her nook. You never can find the exact spot on the first try, but when you hit it you know immediately from the way she goes breathless and still, like the air has been sucked from her lungs. 

You rub again, curling your fingers forward to drag down over that one specific ridge, and all hell breaks loose.. 

(In the past several years you have learned that nearly all sexual encounters with Kanaya Maryam can be concluded with  _and all hell broke loose_. In a sexy way, of course.)

Kanaya clutches at your shoulders, unraveling as she pails; her genetic material pouring from her bulge down your throat is more difficult to manage than you'd anticipated. Almost immediately there is too much to swallow, but you close your eyes, listen to your girlfriend's mangled English, and do the best you can. 

There is, however, only so much one woman can do, and after a moment you feel as though you are drowning, face pressed between Kanaya's hips and held there by her shaking hands between your shoulderblades.

It's alright though, it feels  _right_ , the dark whispers in your mind quieting as you take and take until your body can quite literally take no longer. You feel the dread hit a second before the impulse does, as you gag and start to choke a little. There is a desperate moment in which you think that Kanaya isn't going to let you go; her hands press down harder for a moment before she moves them to the wall. (You feel another stab of dread, vague and surreal, as you realize that this is going to leave some very unfortunate stains on the carpet.) 

Her bulge slips from your throat, your hand slipping from her nook and moving instead to your mouth as you cough, green genetic material dripping from your lips onto the skirt of your dress. You open your mouth as soon as you can breathe again, taking only the tip between your lips this time. She's almost finished anyways (and you thank god that you pailed her only the other night; you can't imagine trying this with her at maximum capacity), just the last few trails of liquid emptying into your mouth. 

You swallow the last of it, your breath heavy once you're finished, trailing your tongue down the length of her bulge while it slides back into its sheath. Her fingers return to your head, and you lean into her touch as she combs gently through your hair. Your breath is slow to return.

You feel  _satisfied_ , it's true - the dark urges dissipate and you feel only exhaustion and a blissful numbness in the back of your mind. Limbs heavy, stomach full in an odd, pleasant way, you want to shut your eyes and sleep right here. 

Before you, Kanaya's legs slowly bend as she lets herself slide down the wall, landing with a soft thump. Her hands on your face are comfort incarnate, warm and soft, touching your sticky green lips and trailing down to cradle your jaw. She leans in and you feel her breath on your skin before she kisses you, and oh that's probably looked down upon in polite society but it feels impossibly good. 

Her palms slide down your neck to your shoulders, a perfect mirrored motion that stirs you from your fog. Teeth bite lightly into your lip and you realize that you are still shaking, and the heat between your legs hasn't gone away in the least. 

Kanaya leans forward, forcing you back off your knees, legs sprawled awkwardly open as she reaches again for the zipper on the back of your dress. You let yourself be pushed, feeling weak to her and hot, too hot to think. Once again your blood is running fierce through your veins. The apartment air is chilly with winter and Kanaya's hands are warm on your skin, fumbling to pull the bodice of your dress down and get her hands on you.

And she does; you feel every notch separate as she tugs the pull down in a slow slide. 

You aren't exactly well endowed but Kanaya has never seemed to care, her fascination with your breasts endless and, in the early days, quite often leaving you feeling sore the next morning. She has since learned the value of discretion in such matters, though sometimes her judgement happens to lead astray. 

Sometimes, you think, she just stops caring about logic. 

Right now her hands are strong and pushy and borderlining that zone of forgetfulness and apathy and delicious subtle pain. You want to tell her just how much you want her to forget reason right now, but you can barely breathe what with the way she's kissing you, wet and frantic and with the taste of her on your teeth. The crown of your head bumps against the wooden baseboard; somehow you've been slipping backwards across the floor all this time without noticing. 

Or, you think, Kanaya has been nudging you backwards all this time without you noticing. Very likely. 

Her lips slide against yours, and there is perhaps nothing more viscerally enjoyable than that feeling - then Kanaya's hands stroke up your sides where she has pushed your dress down, moving to cup your breasts. 

A breath slips past your lips and your head hits the wall again; her hands are warm and familiarly textures and she knows  _exactly_ how to touch you. Kanaya smiles against your mouth and shifts, pressing a leg in between yours again. Without even thinking you roll your hips against her, your spine curving sharply upwards at the heat of her skin through your panties. You grasp at the skirt of your dress, the back of hers, nails scratching lightly against the hardwood floor as you try to get a grip and fail incredibly. 

Kanaya's fingernails have begun to grow out, you note, as their edges scratch light red streaks into the skin of your chest. Your heart pounds to feel them ache, her lips departing from yours to kiss down your neck; they brush over the new marks and your mouth hangs open in a soundless gasp as she tongues your skin, leaves your chest damp and cold in the chill. 

"Rose," she murmurs suddenly, mouth moving against the space between your ribs. Her hands slide under your dress once again, shoving your bodice almost down to your waist. "This is coming off now." 

You want to tell her no, not enough time, put your lips back to better use this  _instant_ , but while you are still Rose Lalonde and thus inherently pretty bossy, under your skin you are hot and your blood is pounding and you are clay in this troll's hands. Pushing up onto shaky elbows, you struggle to lift your hips. Your legs feel weak as Kanaya eases the dress down around them, and you soon collapse in relief, muscles trembling from something that would normally require little effort on your part.

She shoves the dress - well,  _lays_  the dress, and very carefully so - aside, and returns to you.

You are shivering once again, your spine curved down against the cold hardwood floors, Kanaya’s hands your only heat. They slide down, dipping into the slight curve of your waist before settling against your hips in a loose, easy grip; she presses her lips to your navel, breathing out against you and nuzzling lightly into your stomach. 

You’re not quite sure she understands the urgency here.

Right now you are a needy mess of undone nerves and frayed conscience and pure sensory overload. Every inch of you wants her and she is  _nuzzling your stomach like there is all the time in the world_  and you swear you’re about to beg when you catch her eyes darting up to study you and it hits you like the most unfair ton of bricks that Kanaya Maryam is teasing you. 

You are quite sure she does not understand the urgency here.

You groan low in your throat and sit up with a grunt, gripping her face between your hands. A little too hard, you pull her lips to yours, that dark thrum in your head surging forth again in approval. She seems unsurprised (the nerve of her sometimes!) and you’re probably giving her exactly what she wants - but you don’t give a damn about one-upping her or playing right into her hands. You don’t give a damn about much more than having her on you, her fingers inside you, touching you. 

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you are surreptitiously attempting to shove your pride into a small locked box in your heart. Miraculously, you succeed - for all of two seconds. 

And two seconds is more than enough time to whisper, “Please.”

It’s quiet but you know she hears it because she goes still against you for a full moment (a full moment that gives you ample time to feel utterly ashamed of yourself) before the deep thrum in her throat kicks back on and she presses you back against the wall, hard, the hands on your hips sliding down to your thighs. 

All too suddenly her mouth is gone. Kanaya slides back on her knees, cradling your feet in her hands and unhooking each of your short heels in turn before setting them aside. Her hands move quickly as she bends at the waist, stroking all the way from your ankles to hips until she brushes your stomach with her lips, fingers rolling the top of your pantyhose down. She doesn't ask for permission this time, or for help - one hand slid under the small of your back is enough to lift you for the time it takes Kanaya to get the cheap nylons around your knees. 

You would wonder how she is so confoundingly  _quick_ , but you honestly do not care. She was a goddamned bioluminescent, chainsaw-wielding, fashionable vampire troll back in the game, so you suppose she has probably retained some of the strength and speed that come with being a bioluminescent, chainsaw-wielding, fashionable vampire troll. That is simply how it is. You aren't complaining if it means she can undress you in record time. 

The nylons wind up on top of the dress, and you wind up sprawled across the narrow hallway, neck bent against the baseboard with your legs half-spread. 

You feel entirely filthy. 

It's liberating. 

One of Kanaya's hands ghosts further upwards, palm brushing between your legs; you shut your eyes and swallow hard around the sudden noise that arises in your throat as something deep in your abdomen curls tighter, a thick heat that you can feel your blood pulse through. The only thing stopping you from curling in on yourself in a desperate, silly bid to protect that heat is the fact that Kanaya is watching you very intently, her eyes raking you down. You know she doesn't miss details and she won't overlook the short jump of your chest even as you try and breathe slowly, the slight trembling in your hands as you brush your hair out of your face. 

And she is most definitely not missing the way your eyes are locked on her as she dips her head yet again to your stomach, kissing this time just above the waistband of your panties.

You wore your fanciest tonight, lavender and lacy, dressing to impress before you had even gotten the cocktail dress itself on. You don't miss many details either, especially not the ones pertaining to Kanaya watching you dress. Even if you know she doesn't honestly care what you wear under your clothes, you still like to slip into something silky every once in a while. 

Kanaya seems to enjoy it when you do, if only for her love of fine fabrics and the aesthetics of lingerie - and, well, of course, the opportunity to take it off of you. She runs her palms up over your hips, your stomach, up to chest and collarbone and then back, trailing her fingers down over your breasts with barely a pause. Her hands frame your navel, the minute crease of your stomach where you've bent up to watch her. You lock eyes as Kanaya's spine curves downwards ever so slightly further, her lips brushing against the center seam of your panties. 

Swallowing again, you close your eyes and fight to keep your composure as she presses her lips firmly between your legs, tongue darting out to stroke lightly over the dampening fabric. You decide that Kanaya Maryam is the most torturously patient individual you have ever met, and reach to grab one of her horns, pressing her face closer to you. 

She shoots you a look as she draws back, the corners of her lips tilting upwards. Her tongue slides out, gliding smooth along the curve of her bottom lip; at long last Kanaya hooks her thumbs around the sides of your panties and tugs gently downwards. This time you do lift your hips again, opening your grip so that you can gain a precarious balance on your elbows. She pulls the underwear down your legs slower than you ever thought possible, easing your knees through one at a time, leaning back onto her heels to guide the holes over your feet. 

"Seriously?" you murmur, shaking your head, and she smiles again, tossing the garment off onto your dress with a flick of the wrist. 

"Most seriously," she whispers in response, her voice low and warm against your thighs. Her hands relocate, moving over the backs of your thighs to curl around and grip, subtly spreading you wider.

You aren't prepared for the first slow slide of her tongue - your spine curls hard and you bring a hand to your mouth to stifle a short groan. Kanaya freezes, gaze snapping upwards again. 

"Are you alright?" she asks quietly, worry creasing her brow in the slightest manner, and it's stupid, isn't it, of course you aren't alright, you're tearing at the seams. 

Your name is Rose Lalonde and you are a ten-page study on the art of unhinging.

The name comes and you say it, your lips moving in the familiar shape of  _Kanaya_. And you know this, you know that you trust Kanaya, that you love Kanaya (even if you don't vocalize the sentiment often enough), and that she has brought you safely over the edge and caught you countless times. 

You breathe out and drop your hand to her head, stroking down the bridge of her nose and over her lips.

This is Kanaya.

You nod in response to her question, the one echoed in her eyes and her posture as well as in her voice.

You let your hand slip back to your side, your fingers curling loosely against the floor. This time, when she dips her head to lick at you, you melt instead of freezing, letting the unfamiliar feeling soak in. Before you realize it, your hand is at your face again, knuckle between your teeth. You bite down, stifle your senseless words, hold all your sudden twisted emotions inside. Kanaya's mouth is hot, her lips brushing your skin in silent reassurances. 

She shifts forwards, setting your thighs on her shoulders; suddenly you are cradled, curved in on yourself with your shoulderblades pressing into the crook between wall and floor, your hips lifted to Kanaya's mouth. The next drag of her tongue is long and thorough; you feel every minute motion with a clarity borderlining obsessive. 

Her hands are hot in the hinges of your legs. You are a doll in her fingers - one with poorly oiled joints and a predisposition for disobedience, all stiffness and wayward motion. It’s uncontrollable, your reaction, the inhale and exhale in the form of a high and breathy  _ah_ , and you have the stray sudden worry that your neighbors, passing in the hall (or perhaps above you in their kitschy kitchens having a late night cup of too-weak tea) can hear you cry out. 

But you barely know them anyways. 

Your circle is intimate and exclusive and you cling to them like a woman drowning.

You cling to Kanaya like a woman drowning.

Your knees shake even without the burden of supporting you, and your toes curl, butting up against her sides. She gasps -your feet must be freezing- her breath warm as she tightens her grip and slides the tip of _oh_ of her tongue inside you. The floor is cold when your heels press down hard and it’s like you can’t even control your hands anymore. Your poor knuckles fall victim to your teeth yet again. 

They’ll be red and raw by the time you’re done here tonight, you’ll be red and raw  _everywhere_  by the time you’re done here tonight. Already the exposure has gotten to you, the simple sacred feeling of being split open beyond all pretense. It is a cruel and informative process, and-

And Kanaya’s tongue is the fourteenth wonder of the world and you wonder, you have no idea how that had never factored into your fantasies before. She has you on tenterhooks, so painfully gentle and handling you like you are paper-thin spun sugar. 

Breathing has long since been a thing that is half-happening and half-not, maybe that’s a problem you should take care of, minus all mentions of cunnilingus - and maybe you can’t - you  _can’t_.

“Kanaya,” you whisper, and it is choked and she meets your eyes over the curves of your stomach and chest, her eyes so green and full of pity-love. Her pupils are blown wide enough from darkness and desire that your heart pounds a little harder just to see it. 

Your hand floats to her face, moving without ever considering the fact that you are moving. You brush her hair off her forehead, touch the space between her horns, and she lowers her eyes, pressing deeper inside you. Her tongue slides more easily than her fingers ever have.

Without intent you think that her bulge would feel like that between your legs, slick and hitchless but for you and your incurable trembling. Your fingers tighten in her hair in mimicry of hers in yours scant minutes ago, the unbidden but wholly welcome thought of her hips rolling against yours as her bulge curls inside you in the way her tongue does now, the thought rocks down your spine and straight into the heat of your veins.

Once it happens, it’s hard to shake the thought. Your entire body is strung between wall and excellent troll girlfriend, taut like a bowstring and ready to be fired, speaking of fire you feel as though you are on fire, her tongue moving deep and curling, dragging. It’s all that you feel except perhaps her fingers dug into your thighs.

You’ll bruise but you don’t care, you like bruises, you like the dark shapes of her hands like faultily exposed photographs leaving ghost images on your skin. Tomorrow morning you’ll see them during your early shower and take a moment to stare and touch and wonder at the intangible existence of them.

Your knuckle is beginning to ache, a dull, distracting pain and you force that hand away from your mouth, pushing it instead up through your hair, hovering awkwardly around your cheek. The back of your hand butts up against your temple as you lift your head again. You watch as well as you can when you’re breathing so hard you’re starting to lose focus, lose a steady line of sight, lose it all.

Subtly she spreads you wider, and something in your back protests but you’re too far gone to care. Her tongue slips from inside you, trailing instead in a long slow wind; her grip shifts, the fingertips of one hand nudging into you with the next press of her tongue right where you need it. The points of her teeth scrape your skin, gentle and sharp the way Kanaya just  _is_ , and you feel every muscle in your body tighten.

You grab on hard to one of her horns with the hand in her hair and. 

And behind your eyes (you shut them) your mind goes bright and black in turn, the spinning star of Skaia and the dark spires of Derse’s towers and - and being stuck in the blackened hallways of your meteor home and being lost in everything gray and knowing that (saying that,  _feeling_  that) your light was only light with  _her_  light, whether anyone else knew or cared or not. 

In this second your heart beats twice, the breath you were holding stutters out of your mouth in fumbled half-syllables, and you process simultaneously all and none of the information going through your mind. But what you feel is more simple, what you feel is the soft hand on your thigh, Kanaya sighing heavily as your white-knuckled hold on her horn loosens, the jumping muscles in your legs relaxing to the chill of the floor, the fact that the wooden molding is probably imprinted across your shoulderblades, and alright, perhaps what you feel is only  _slightly_  less complicated than what you think. 

But it all comes back to you as you inhale and exhale, forcibly deep. Kanaya sits up, lowering your hips to the ground; she trails discreet fingers over her lips, as though she would wipe them with the back of her hand if she hadn’t a sense of decency. Instead she absently licks them clean and you find yourself smiling, laughing a little and covering your face because sometimes you are just so ridiculous. 

Her hands close around your wrists, gently prying them free from your chest so that she can lean into you, her dress soft on your bare skin. You cling to her, still with that smile, kissing her neck and the curve of her jaw and right on the lips, the last vestiges of her lipstick smearing off. It tastes the same as normal, it’s what lingers on her tongue and inside her mouth that’s different. 

“I’d ask if you are alright,” Kanaya murmurs, her arms tight around your shoulders. “But I’m going to take the general air of contentedness as affirmation.” 

She’s good at subtle rearrangement - until you thought about it, you didn’t realize that you were now sitting just barely off the floor on the edges of her knees. Amazing. Your freezing ass appreciates the gesture beyond words. 

The heat in your limbs is cooling fast regardless, and you trace the scooping back of her dress, cheek pressed into her collarbone. 

“We need a shower.”

Kanaya’s throat vibrates in subdued laughter. 

“Personally, I was thinking more of a warm bath,” she admits. 

In your old apartment you had nothing but a cramped shower stall; you’ve never told anyone and never will, but one of the top three reasons the two of you picked this building to move into was that the bathtub was antique and massive, with iron lion feet and enough room for two. It is your deepest darkest secret, obviously, that in your heart you are the same silly girl as you were when you were thirteen.

Your bathtub is absolutely fantastic, though. 

Nobody can tell you otherwise. 

“Here,” Kanaya says. “Hold on.”

You hold on. Years of experience have made it second nature to take what Kanaya asks you to do very seriously. Most of the time it turns out to be a good plan, at least when she isn’t attempting a new brand of humor. When she is, you usually end up feeling like a fool. 

You hold on tight, grabbing one wrist with your other hand. Kanaya stands, her arms wrapped around the small of your back, before stopping, resting your weight against the wall.

"One moment," she murmurs and unhooks your legs from around her hips, tucking the backs of your knees into the crook of her elbow instead.

It's not the first time she's carried you thus (John and Karkat had made the trip into the city to help you move last year and once the boxes were all set and the four of you had gone out for drinks, a very tipsy John refused to let you back into the apartment unless Kanaya carried you across the threshold. While you were busy reminding him that you were not, in fact, newlyweds, Kanaya hauled you rather gracelessly up into her arms, taking extra care not to let your head hit the doorway. However, you fabricated no less than a dozen unique explanations for colleagues and acquaintances alike concerning how you broke two of the toes on your right foot. Kanaya coddled you for a glorious month) but it's still a terribly romantic thing to do, as long as neither of you end up hobbling around the apartment for another three weeks. 

"Careful there," you remind her, and her lips purse into a fleeting pout. "I need these feet intact."

She readjusts her grip and turns sideways to step into the bathroom. You're set down with a distinct lack of finesse onto the closed toilet seat (Kanaya somehow manages to at least set a towel down beforehand; ceramic is almost always colder than hardwood) and she makes an overexaggerated noise of relief. When you raise an inquiring eyebrow, she only turns to lean over the tub, tutting under her breath. 

"It seems as though you're a little..." Kanaya pauses for effect, turns on the water, and exhales in an entirely false sigh, "A little  _heavier_  than the last time I carried you. Perhaps you're gaining stress weight?"

You rest your chin in your hand, admire her legs in that dress, and don't say a word. It's a little late to be playing mind games tonight. But when she turns after a moment and catches you looking, you just lean back, pretending like the freezing water tank isn't making your back spasm in shock.

Once your deadpan is securely in place, you think it's safe to speak. 

" _Perhaps_ ," you muse dryly, tracing the wave motif on the rim of the sink beside you in mock contemplation. "But perhaps I've become pregnant with your child, Kanaya. Come September, give or take a month for interspecies breeding disparities, I'll give birth to a bundle of genetically mismatched joy." 

You rub at an imaginary spot of dirt with your thumb. 

"Maybe even a litter of them."

Kanaya snorts. In addition to being the only person you know who can stomp delicately, she's also the only person you know who can snort delicately. 

"Setting aside the fact that trolls and humans don't have compatible reproductive systems-" The water runs hot and she presses the plug into the drain. "I'm well aware of the fact that human females require internal fertilization to produce viable offspring."

She fixes you with a look, and your throat goes a little dry. While you are still the indisputable master of wit in the household, and thus almost always the victor in verbal sparring matches, Kanaya retains the remarkable ability to occasionally render you speechless.

"Why, Miss Maryam," you manage finally. Your voice is much too breathy to be effective. You swallow; it doesn't help. "What are you implying with a look so positively...  _provocative_?"

A change of heart is in order. It is most certainly the proper time for games. 

"Several things," she says, as implacably collected as ever, though the green flush in her cheeks belies her boldness. "None of which have very much relevance tonight."

It's hard to tell whether that odd sensation is your heart sinking or your hopes rising. Funny how the two can seem so alike sometimes. You put your chin back in your hand and watch Kanaya dip her fingers in the bathwater. While you treasure your bathtub, waiting for it to fill is often a study in patience. 

You love it regardless.

"And another night?"

Waiting for Kanaya to answer loaded questions is also often a study in - or, at least, a test of - patience. 

But you love her regardless as well. 

"It's possible that, on a later date, they will be very relevant indeed," she answers finally, and no amount of significant looks can drag any more out of her - not that you don't already have a pretty good idea of what she's thinking, not that you haven't been thinking along the same lines for ages. But, alas, alack, as the both of you know well, there is a vast chasm between the safety of intense fantasies and the even more potent realization of them.

You cross your arms over your chest, feeling suddenly very naked indeed. It doesn't help that your body is making it apparent how cold it is in the apartment. 

"And?" you ask. It comes a little too late for natural conversation, and you mask a fleeting bout of self-consciousness by ducking your head, running an absent hand through the tangled hair at the back of your neck.

" _And_ , when we reach that bridge, we will cross it with considerable aplomb." Kanaya stands, shaking the water from her fingers with a quick flick of her wrist. "Are you ready?"

Something short-circuits in the deep, unfathomable workings of your brain, and in the time it takes you to realize that she's talking about the bath and not further sexual exploration, she's stepped across the short width of the bathroom and bent down in front of you, her nose bumping against yours. You doubt that was her intent, but she doesn't seem fazed by it, so you try your best not to seem fazed by it either. Such is the way of things in the Maryam-Lalonde household. 

"Or do I have to pick you up and put you in, as if you were an impudent wiggler?" She leans forward a little and bumps her forehead into yours (which was a consternating mystery for a very long time, until you did your research in proper and watched her in action and learned that the gentle butting of heads was a rather affectionate gesture of the pale and flushed quadrants and not, as you suspected, an attempt to knock you out), a small smile gracing her lips. 

You tip your head forward, giving her a small bump in return. 

"Are you certain I'm not too heavy?" You tease, dragging your nose upwards along hers until your mouths touch.

"Oh, absolutely  _not_ ," she whispers, tone heavy with fake sarcasm, and sometimes you cannot get over the perfection that is the way Kanaya Maryam fits into your life.

Her hands on your cheeks slip down over your shoulders again and you think, you think she's probably actually about to pick you up yet again - so you stand, slow so you don't smack your head into hers with any great speed and have someone end up with a bleeding nose. You take in the twisted seams of her dress, the slightly wrinkled, draping folds of fabric.

"I suppose you'll be joining me?" 

She hums affirmation, stepping aside to let you pass.

"After you, my dear."

The water is warm, inviting, and only slightly scalding to your freezing feet as you step in. You sit slowly, making sure the waves don’t spill over the sides of the tub. It’s likely that some will slop over once Kanaya’s in, but that’s a chance you’re more than willing to take, and for now you fold your arms on the rim, lay your cheek upon them, and watch her undress.

You like to claim that for Kanaya, disrobing is a religious experience. It’s not wholly untrue; she’s careful with almost every article of clothing the both of you own, folding and hanging so that nothing creases outside its proper place, making sure that the washer doesn’t mutilate the more delicate pieces, fixing rips and tears with nigh invisible stitches - but, exaggeration aside, you enjoy watching her take off her painstakingly coordinated outfits in her painstakingly ritual manner.

Her dress, though rumpled, isn’t stained, at least nowhere that you can readily see, and it slips easily down over her hips. She hangs it over the edge of the hamper, straightening the seams so that it lays properly, before bending at the waist to strip her stockings. The process is slow, but that’s nothing you’ve ever minded; being given more time to take in the smooth lines of her body is never a thing you’ll complain about.

And she watches you watch her, you know she does, because every once in a while her eyes happen to meet yours in a brief glance, whether by happenstance or deliberately. You make it a point to wink. Kanaya pauses when she’s finished, her body bare and her cheeks slightly flushed. You stretch a wet, warm hand out, press it to her stomach and let it trail downwards.

“Come on in,” you say, running your palm over her hip. “The water’s fine.”

She smiles down at you and steps carefully into the tub. You pull your legs in close until she’s reclining against the opposite edge, and then extend them, let them fall on either side of hers. For the second time tonight, your toes nudge up against her ribs, and she laughs with a sound that turns quickly into a groan of relief at the warmth of the water.

The feeling is mutual; you do so treasure her delicacy in situations like this. As you soak, the tightness of your skin and your muscles relaxes gradually; you rub circles with your thumbs into the arches of her feet, her thin ankles, the swells of her calves, listening to her murmur thanks and shutting your eyes as she returns the favor.

Silence falls on the apartment. It’s a blissful reprieve from the normal bustle of the building. You suppose every other sensible person is asleep right now, or preparing to be, but you have no regrets. You’ll be sleeping soon as well, in any case, though you’d best not sleep in the tub, no matter how lulling the repetitive drip of the faucet is.

“You’re beginning to prune,” Kanaya says suddenly, and for a long moment you aren’t sure she’s spoken, but when you open your eyes you find her fondly tracing the silly pink wrinkles on your feet. Sometimes you forget that warm and fuzzy patronizing feelings exist on both ends of your relationship. “We ought to be in bed at some point tonight, you know.”

“Sleeping?” You ask, for the sake of obstinence. You wiggle your foot from her grasp and sit up, carefully turning so that you can float over to lay on her legs. On a whim you prop your feet on the edge of the tub, but the air is still freezing, and you give up nearly immediately. Kanaya pushes your wet and clumping bangs off your forehead.

“Of course. You’ve got a whole chapter to write before your deadline at the end of the week, you know, and I can’t be hanging around all the time to make sure you actually sit down to write it instead of obsessively knitting new covers for the throw pillows.”

You open your mouth to reply with something ingeniously witty, but you’ve used up your quota of ingeniously witty comments for the night. Day. …Whatever time it is, you’re plum out of them.

“They always clash with the decor, anyways.”

The length of your arms is just enough to press up on the tub floor from this angle; you push backwards until your shoulders surface and your back bumps up against her chest.

“They wouldn’t if you’d ever keep one of the afghans on the couch,” you mutter. 

“Afghans,” Kanaya repeats. “ _Afghans_.”

(Kanaya could write an entire treatise on the ways that afghans are a crime against fashion and should be stricken from the history of all things made of yarn. She has, as a matter of fact. Her professor gave her an A-minus on the paper for the sole reason that it was too emotionally involved.) 

“You know, for all that you claim not to be an interior decorator, you have a lot of intense feelings about afghans and their hypothetical place on our couch.”

“Rose,” she sighs. “My dearest. The seed-bearing fruit of my ever adoring eye. Afghans have no place on our couch, hypothetical or not.”

You lift your foot, watch the dampness drip from it and back into the water. 

“Your hands are pruning as well, you know.” 

With a quiet splash, you perform a clumsy flip and fold your arms on her stomach, staring defiantly up at her as though it was a proper 10 in aquatic gymnastics. Swimming was never something you excelled at. 

“Come on,” Kanaya sighs again, as though you are a burden on her very soul. 

You realize, as you have many times before that it takes a unique sort of couple to have a relationship based on mutual exasperation. 

Before you have time to complete that exceedingly abstract thought, let alone protest, she snakes a hand down your stomach, pressing gently between your legs. 

“I thought you said your secretive things were reserved for future nights,” you stutter, surprise more than arousal choking your words. 

“And I thought you implied that we needed to get cleaned up before bed.” 

Her hand is gone in the next instant. You don’t bother making a smart comment about neglecting to use soap, as your head is still reeling a little. Instead you press your hand to her side, shift it down between  _her_  legs, where your fingers knock against hers and you push her hand away, stroke her sheath with impeccable care, slide down to rub at her nook. You touch so lightly that it is probably maddening, but all is fair in love and baths, and Kanaya Maryam deserves what she gets when she asks for it like that.

It turns into a short splashing fight that neither of you will admit to later, a grabbing of wrists and sudden bursts of giggling laughter that slop a great deal of water out onto the floor before you end up in her lap, mouth pressed openly to hers, breathing hard but not really aroused. The two of you are playing at it, more comforting each other than anything, you know as well as she that steps like this are daunting and if you can’t laugh over it all afterwards, what  _can_  you do?

And finally you extract yourself from the lukewarm bathwater, fumbling for a towel as your teeth begin to chatter. Kanaya takes it from your hands, pats you dry, and you play the doll again, letting her rub your hair until it’s damp and not dripping. You stretch up on your toes to get hers, her dark hair a shock against the white cotton as it always is; you let the towel fall to her neck and pull her down for another long kiss. 

She touches your hips. 

“We need to dry the floor before it gets damp and makes the downstairs neighbors’ ceiling moldy,” she whispers. 

It’s so terrible unromantic that you want to cry laughing - but you don’t. You wrap the towel in your hands around yourself and fetch another two from the closet, one for Kanaya and one for the floor. 

You reach across the sink for your toothbrush and toothpaste, watching her out of the corner of your eye to see what she has planned, but she just regards the small puddle behind the tub and the towel in her hands before tossing it onto the damp patches of tile. 

“Your cleaning skills are legendary.” 

You shake your head in mock disapproval, knowing that on any other night she would’ve made you help her mop the dampness from every last square millimeter of the floor. She plucks the toothbrush from your hand and drops it back in the cup, taking hers up next and giving her teeth a thorough scrubbing.

That’s good; if she’d been as haphazard with that as she was with the floor, you’d have to suspect demonic possession and not mere fatigue.

"Bed," she insists, after spitting in the sink and rinsing her mouth out again with water. "We are going to bed. No detours."

Inquiring about pajamas gets you no response, only silent gentle herding towards the bedroom, and you only barely manage to spin away towards the dresser for a pair of loose sleep pants and your comfiest shirt. It's a cold night outside. You toss Kanaya her favorite pair of pajamas, and she changes as fast as you've ever seen her change, slipping under the covers in less than a minute. 

You dress considerably slower, something you're more than ready to defend with the fact that you spent a portion of the night bent very nearly in half, but Kanaya doesn't say a word when you crawl under the covers beside her. Instead, she gathers you in close, pressing her face into the crown of your head. (Your hair will be ratty tomorrow if you go to bed with it wet and unbrushed. You'll need to borrow one of her numerous headscarves, but you hadn't planned on going out anyways.) You're glad for her warmth. 

"I love you, you know," she murmurs. "Though it may on occasion seem like a superfluous thing to say."

You breathe in the faint smell of mint toothpaste on her breath and tuck your head under her chin. 

"Don't be ridiculous," you sigh, your body tired to the bone and your mind pleasantly blank. "It's hardly superfluous to to say something that so succintly expresses a myriad of copacetic emotions."

Kanaya's chest rises and falls and you put a hand over her heart to feel it beat.

"I love you," you whisper back finally, as if it was a secret in the dark, her body wrapped tight around yours under the covers. "Now go to bed."

The mattress squeaks a little as you raise your hands to her shoulderblades, to the back of her head and her hair dampening the pillow. Kanaya rolls onto her back and pulls you against her side, one of your legs hooked at knee and ankle to one of hers. You end up with your face tucked into her chest and a hand, as always, over her heart; it's an instinctive gesture that you can never seem to quit without some degree of anxiety.

You don't suppose the pressing need to make sure people are still alive will ever leave you. 

But though you really don't feel like you can sleep, despite being mentally and physically exhausted, you make the grave mistake of closing your eyes. And from there - well, from there, you lose the hours in a rush of color and intangible sound. 

The next morning comes as fast as it always does, though you don't wake at all during the night. It's unnatural for you to sleep the full amount that you ought to. You make a note of it, decide to possibly pin it on the hypothetical soporific effect of troll genetic material even though you know full well that it's mostly likely just a side effect of exerting yourself so thoroughly last night. 

At some point during sleep, your feet made their way out from beneath the covers, and you tuck them back in before you stretch out beneath the blanket, arching your hips off of the mattress and sighing as your vertebrae pop. It feels heavenly. You let yourself drop without an ounce of poise. The bed is cavernous when you are the sole occupant, but it at least gives you room to spread-eagle yourself and wake up slowly. 

That is, until you take a deep breath and realize that you can smell pancakes. 

God bless Kanaya Maryam for being a perfect sentient being.

Despite the promise of an excellent breakfast, the bed holds priority for a short while longer, at least until you feel sufficiently well-rested. When you are as pliable as a cat, all the creaks and stiff muscles forced out of your body by languid and spontaneously invented yoga-esque maneuvers, you slip out from beneath the covers and brave the cold floors for the kitchen. You at least remember to slip into your robe before leaving the bedroom; you may have a stack of coveted blueberry pancakes waiting, but it is still very much winter in western New York and you are still very much a baby when it comes to the cold.

"Good morning," Kanaya calls as soon as you step from the hall into the kitchen. She's standing at the stove, flipping piping-hot pancakes and wearing the apron John gave you as a housewarming gift, and you wonder how it is that your life has become so heteronormative. 

You take another moment to wonder how you could ever consider your lesbian, interspecies, half-hermaphroditic household _heteronormative_. 

"Good morning indeed," you sigh, at long last crossing the freezing tile of the kitchen floor. Though you can just barely put your chin onto Kanaya's shoulder if you stretch up onto the tips of your toes, you lean against her back. She's warm - her body retains bedwarmth longer than yours and she's been at the stove for who knows how long - and she cranes her neck to press her lips to your forehead. 

"I figured it would be a morning in dire need of a proper breakfast." You fall back onto your heels as she talks, tucking your cheek into her shoulderblade instead. "If the weather forecast is accurate, today will be in the negative degrees. Farenheit," she specifies, as if negative Celsius wouldn't be bad enough. 

Gently, Kanaya unhooks your arms from her waist and turns to kiss you again, a little longer and slower and on the lips this time, and it almost makes up for the fact that your windows are going to be frosted over with cold today. 

...No, you shouldn't be so demanding, it more than makes up for that.

"Now," she says, nudging her forehead against yours. "If you would be so kind to have a seat, I have a griddle full of flapjacks to attend to." 

(You'd probably tell John off for teaching Kanaya silly colloquial sayings if it wasn't so amusing to have her actually use them.)

"I suppose I can muster up the patience."

"There's a good girl," Kanaya laughs and turns back to the stove as you take a seat. "I take it you slept well?"

"I," you sigh, stretching across the table for the morning paper, "Slept with more depth than the poor souls in any coma ward."

Splashed across the front page are more political scandals and worldwide calamaties than you can muster up the energy to care about at this time of day. Instead you skip to the  _Life & Arts _section and read the latest ridiculously stuffy and old-fashioned answer in the _Miss Manners_ column. That cantankerous old bitch never ceases to amuse.

"I'm certain they're wallowing in the most poignant envy imaginable." 

A plate stacked high with blueberry pancakes materializes in front of you as though it were a mirage on the horizon of some distant desert. Heaven awaits your tongue, a series of literal gustatory orgasms that have been gifted to you by the good graces of Alternian grubcakes - grubcakes sans the less savory ingredients, that is. Some might call you close-minded, but you never developed a taste for powdered beetle carapace and ground lichen. 

Kanaya takes her seat across from you, and plucks the  _Life &Arts_ section right from your fingers, deftly folding it to the appropriate page. She scans the page, snorts, lays the paper down amongst the rest of it, and pushes the small pitcher of syrup across the table to you. 

"Those heathens wouldn't know a proper winter color palette if it disguised itself amongst racks of poor-quality ponchos and bit them in the posterior." 

That being said, she ignores your smile and tips several pancakes onto your plate.

"I keep telling you," you sigh, and she clips right in with, "And I keep telling  _you_  that working as anything other than commissioned seamstress jeapordizes the integrity of one's work. Now  _eat._  I want a solid chapter out of you before John inevitably calls to ask if we are also stuck inside due to gratuitous amounts of snow."

"Yes, dear."

"And do try not to give up and knit another laptop cozy. We have twenty piled up in the linen closet already."

"Yessss," you mumble, through a mouthful of perfectly cooked pancakes. "Dearrrrr."

Under the table Kanaya pushes her freezing toes up under the hem of your pajama pants, and you can't not jump a little at the touch; when she laughs her teeth are bright, shining, her face warm and open and yours. You stretch across the table to push a forkful of blueberry and syrupy mush into her mouth. 

And all is well.


End file.
